


It's Only Tea

by hilaryfaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, References to Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:59:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, maybe you should go out for tea with this Anderson,” Mary said, “It’s just one date, what could that hurt?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Only Tea

**Molly**

Molly supposed she’d never given Anderson much thought before. She’d seen him now and again when one of Lestrade’s cases demanded it, but as far as Molly could recall they’d never said much more than twenty words to each other that weren’t related to work. She knew a few things about him from gossip—he was in the middle of an ugly divorce, so ugly people wondered if he would even get to see his three year old daughter once it was finalized. She knew they suspected he was drinking.

When it came down to it, that was the only thing Molly knew about Thomas Anderson.

So she didn’t understand why he’d shown up in her lab.

He looked like hell, though Molly was too polite to say that. He might have been a little ill, or sleep-deprived, or any other number of things, but he looked terrible. When she asked him if he was there for a case, Anderson stared at his feet. He seemed to gather up his courage and looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit of a mess… I was wondering if—if you’d have tea with me, sometime.”

Molly was more than surprised. She stuttered, “I-I’m flattered, Anderson, but…”

He took the hint, and nodded, seeming a little deflated. “Sorry I bothered you.”

“No, it’s alright. Honest.” What was she, fourteen? Good heavens. She shuffled her papers, avoiding eye contact. Anderson smiled weakly and left her lab.

Molly had to sit down. What on earth had just happened?

Anderson, as far as she could tell, had never shown any interest in her before… but Molly had to admit she might not have been looking. He was married, for heaven’s sake, and she… she’d wanted Sherlock.

Molly didn’t fail to notice she was starting to refer to that in the past tense.

She met Mary for lunch that day. They were friends from uni, and Mary was meaning to tell Molly all about this new man she’d met. Molly tried to listen, she really did.

“…Molly? Are you even listening to me?”

She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, “Just—got something on my mind.”

“Tell me?” Mary asked, cocking her head to the side. Molly had long thought of Mary as the prettier friend, the one who had things to talk about when it came to men. Molly’s shyness usually prevented her from having much to talk about in that department, at least compared to Mary. Molly was certain her love life was about as exciting as that of a primary school teacher.

No, that wasn’t fair, there were probably primary school teachers with more exciting love lives.

“Have I mentioned Anderson?” Molly asked. “We work together, sometimes, on homicides.”

“No, I don’t think you have.” Mary smiled. “Is he cute?”

“Are you fifteen?” Molly fired back. She settled into a more serious tone. “He showed up to my lab today and asked me to tea.”

“Oh? What did you say?”

“That I was flattered.”

“Molly, you can’t be serious.”

“He’s married.” Molly picked at her salad.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you mention that?”

“Well, he’s getting a divorce, or at least so I hear…”

“Molly, you’re giving me mixed signals about why this is bothering you.” Mary rested her chin on her hand. “Do you like him or don’t you?”

Of course Mary would think it was that simple. Molly sipped at her drink. “He’s never seemed interested in me before. I don’t think we’ve even really talked about anything other than work.”

Mary waited for the answer to her question.

“I barely know him, Mary.”

“Well, obviously he likes you.” Mary picked up her own drink. “If he’s still interested maybe you should give him a try.”

Molly was quiet, and Mary’s expression softened. “Still on about Sherlock, then?” she asked.

“I don’t know any more,” Molly replied, poking at her salad with disinterest. She’d have liked a cheeseburger. “After Christmas…” Molly had told Mary all about that incident at Christmas. She still hadn’t entirely forgiven Sherlock for that.

“Well, maybe you should go out for tea with this Anderson,” Mary said, “It’s just one date, what could that hurt?”

Molly opened the body bag, knowing Sherlock was in one of his moods. He was being less than helpful about everything, and it didn’t help that Anderson had been preparing to inspect the body just moments before Sherlock arrived.

Neither Molly or Anderson had mentioned the last time they saw each other. It looked like he’d at least gotten some sleep, or felt better, since then.

Anderson also looked aggravated, watching Sherlock. “It’s nice to know that they let the psychopath have free reign of the morgue.”

“Anderson, don’t,” Molly said, and turned to Sherlock just as he opened his mouth, “And don’t you say anything either.” Sherlock frowned and seemed a little put out, but went back to inspecting the body. John hovered in the background, apparently texting Lestrade.

Molly glanced at Anderson. He noticed her look and sighed, folding his arms over his chest. She couldn’t really blame him for being frustrated with Sherlock—he was only trying to do his job. She moved over to where he was standing on the pretense of organizing her equipment. “Are you still interested in tea?”

He seemed surprised. “Yes, absolutely.”

Molly noticed Sherlock and John look up out of the corner of her eye. “How’s tomorrow? I get off for lunch just after noon.”

Anderson smiled. “Perfect.”

Molly turned back, bringing something Sherlock had asked for. The look on John’s face would have been comical if Molly weren’t slightly embarrassed.

The next morning she spent fretting. Fretting like a schoolgirl, and she knew it. Checking her hair, wondering if Sherlock and John had told anyone that she was going on a lunch date with Anderson, or if everybody and their mother knew.

She called Mary during her break just to tell her how nervous she was. “Well I’m no expert—” Mary began.

“Yes you are.”

“—but I’d say you like him just a teensy bit, Molly.” Molly could almost hear Mary’s smile. “Tell me how it goes when you get back from lunch, alright?”

“Yeah, alright.” Molly covered her eyes with her hand. “If I survive my nerves.”

“Oh, take a deep breath, Molly,” Mary laughed, “It’s only tea.”

“Right,” Molly said, “Only tea.”

Molly took a last moment to stand just behind a newsstand, watching Anderson, since he’d gotten there before her. He was on the phone. She could just hear—“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I can’t visit this weekend. Because your mummy wouldn’t like it.”

Molly bit her lip. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she didn’t really know him.

“I know, sweetheart. I’ll visit as soon as I can, but I have to go now. I love you, too.” He hung up, and Molly came around the newsstand, smiling like she’d just arrived. “Sorry, I’m a little later than I thought I’d be. Got caught up.”

“No worries,” he replied, smiling back. He did have a rather nice smile…

As they sat down in the cozy little cafe, he added, “I meant to thank you, for saying something yesterday.”

Molly blinked. “Oh, well—I didn’t want a fight to break out in my lab.” She laughed. Anderson chuckled.

Their conversation was awkward at first, but as time passed it grew easier. They talked about easy things—where they’d gotten their degrees, work. Molly was immersed, and only just realized she was about to be late getting back to the lab. “Oh! I have to go,” she grabbed her purse and her coat. “It’s been wonderful,” she said, pulling out some money for her lunch. “Really, I had a fantastic time.” She was surprised that she meant it. Usually she said that to be polite.

Tom—she was thinking of him on a first name basis now—glanced at his watch and muttered a curse, standing as well. “I, uh—I’d like to see you again, if that’s alright.”

He seemed so shy, not that Molly was one to judge. “I’d like that,” she said. She scribbled on a napkin and handed it to him. Heavens, but she felt like this was something juvenile, handing him her phone number on a napkin—but she was in a hurry and there wasn’t anything else. “We’ll plan something, yeah?”

He nodded.

“Tell me all about it!” Mary demanded over the phone. “You sound cheery.”

“Well I’ll be seeing him again,” Molly said, keeping her phone pressed between shoulder and ear as she wrapped up for the day. “It was great, actually.” Molly couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Oh? What did you talk about?”

“Hang on, I’ve got a text.” Molly glanced at the screen.

I can’t believe a smart woman like you is seeing Anderson. —SH

Molly groaned.

“What? What is it?” Mary asked.

“Oh, it’s Sherlock—he and Tom are always at each other’s throats.” It’s none of your business, Sherlock. And we’re not “seeing” each other, we’ve been on one date. —Molly

“Well, there’s something you neglected to mention at lunch. What did he say?”

“I didn’t think it was important; he said he can’t believe I’m ‘seeing’ Tom, but I don’t think one date counts as ‘seeing.’”

“Well he had his chance at having a say in who you saw, didn’t he? Wasted it. Shame on him, too, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Molly giggled a little. “Oh, Mary…”

“It’s the truth. Now, when you have your second date, ignore any and all texts. Especially the ones from Sherlock.”

“I don’t even know how Sherlock got my phone number. He’ll probably show up, just to say something awful.”

“Honestly, Molly, the more you tell me about Sherlock the less I like him.”

Molly’s phone dinged again. You’re far more capable than he is. —SH

Capability doesn’t have anything to do with it. I think you dismiss him too easily. —Molly

“I’m not too happy with him myself, right now.”

“Still texting you?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe dating Tom’s just what you need to make Sherlock realize he can’t just push you around.”

“He doesn’t push me around,” Molly said, resentful of the implication.

“But Molly, love, you have to admit that when you like someone, you let them get away with quite a lot.”

“Well now he’s being a nuisance.”

And what about Anderson’s character have you noticed that I missed? —SH

Molly’s mouth tightened. Don’t text me about Tom again. I rather like him. I’ll be seeing him again. It’s none of your business. —Molly

“Mary,” Molly pulled on her coat, “Will it complicate things, that Tom has a little girl?”

“Probably,” Mary admitted, “But not with you and Tom, I think. If you ever meet the ex-wife, it will probably be awkward. Especially if things get serious between you.”

“Well, it’s a bit early to be worrying about that.” Molly looped her purse over her shoulder. “So you’ve another date, tonight?”

“Maybe. Not all that he was cracked up to be, I’m thinking of telling him I’ve the flu.”

Molly laughed a little.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, locking the door behind her. “Just don’t ever change, Mary.”

**Anderson**

“Daddy,” Patricia said, “Daddy, want juice.”

Tom had almost been asleep. The cartoons Emily liked were barely above mind-numbing at best, and painfully stupid at worst. He rolled off the sofa, mussing Trish’s hair on his way to the kitchen. She giggled.

He ought to take her out to the park. He didn’t want to be one of those parents who looked up one day and wondered when their kids had gotten so big, and why they’d missed it all.

He had orange juice, that was about it. He found one of the sippy cups and rinsed the lid in the sink. Tricia was glued to her spot on the carpet, laughing maniacally at the telly. Yes, he really ought to take her to the park.

His phone buzzed. “Hello?”

“Tom, it’s me—Lestrade wants to know if you can come in to the lab today.”

“I’ve got Tricia with me.”

Sally’s “oh” said she was rapidly looking for an alternative. “Do you think Jacobs is free?”

“How should I know?” The others at the Yard could imply all they wanted that he was sleeping with Ann Jacobs, it simply wasn’t true, and Sally ought to have known that. They’d been friends for years. “What’s so important, anyway? Not another homicide already, is it?”

“No, Lestrade wants something reexamined.” Sally’s voice went from searching to irritated. “Something the freak said, I’m sure.”

Anderson groaned. Trish looked up from the telly. “And I suppose I’ll be blamed for the fu—” he stopped, glancing at Trish, “For the problem.”

“Porter was on forensics that day. Lestrade wanted you to correct it.”

“Better than being the reason for it in the first place, I suppose,” he muttered, handing Trish her orange juice. “Why doesn’t Lestrade just put the psychopath in the lab if he’s so much better than the rest of us?”

“I’m off to call Jacobs,” Sally replied, “Are you free, Friday? Some of us are going out for drinks.”

“No, I… I’ve got a date.”

“A date?” she sounded surprised. “Your divorce isn’t even finalized.”

“Jenna and I haven’t even been in the same flat for the last eight months,” Tom countered, “I’m only waiting for paperwork to go through at this point. Now’s as good a time as any.”

“Who is it?” Sally was genuinely curious, he could tell.

Tom picked up the dishes from breakfast. “Molly Hooper.”

For a moment, he’d thought he’d stunned Sally into silence.

“You’re joking.”

“We went to lunch just the other day.” He wasn’t sure if he should be amused or offended by how startled Sally was. “Why is that so surprising?”

“Well—she was mad for the freak for the longest time. Must have finally got tired of him.” Sally was quiet a moment. “You like her then?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well I wish you the best of luck.”

“I’ll need it.” Dishes in the sink, he could deal with them later. “See you at work.”

“See you at work.”

Tom dropped his phone in his pocket, going over to switch of the telly—during an advert so as to upset Trish as little as possible. Sally was a good sort of friend. Sherlock bloody Holmes might have thought he knew the nature of their relationship, but he was too sure of himself for his own good. The night before Jennifer Wilson’s body turned up, Sally had had a nasty break up. She’d called, Tom insisted she come over and they had a few beers and talked, and she ended up sleeping on the sofa.

Jenna hadn’t yet moved out, she’d been in the second bedroom. Jenna could have assumed the worst and even she knew that he and Sally were only good friends.

“Only good friends.” Something about that sounded horribly cliche.

Trish looked up at him when he switched off the telly, the sippy cup glued to her mouth. “We’re going to the park,” he told her. “Let’s get your coat.”

She ran to the hall closet, prying it open and waiting for Tom to get her coat off the hanger. She had her mum’s eyes, but really Trish was the spitting image of Anderson’s sister, Penny. Dark haired, pale, freckled, and probably destined to be the prettiest girl in her school someday. Of course if she was like Penny she’d be completely unaware of that fact.

He hoped she got a fair amount of her mother’s personality, in a lot of respects. She certainly didn’t need to do most of the things Penny had done.

Heroin, namely.

Tricia let him zip up her jacket and she held onto his hand while he locked the door to their flat. She had clutched under her arm a green dragon plush toy—though at some point it had lost its wings, and Jenna hadn’t been able to sew them back on, so Tricia’s dragon had become her dinosaur. She was quite proud of it.

“Gets that from you, I imagine,” Jenna had said.

It was a gentle teasing. It was Sherlock Holmes who had sarcastically begun that stupid rumor that he was sexually interested in dinosaurs. Jenna knew better—dinosaurs, miraculously enough, had been the one thing he and his father didn’t fight over. Naming fossils had been the one thing Tom could do that his father didn’t deem “less than acceptable.” He’d gotten his own fondness for them, over time. It was at least one thing about his father he was able to remember in a good light.

Trish padded along down the hall next to him, hugging the “dinosaur” to her chest.

Tricia hadn’t been planned. She’d been a surprise in most every sense of the word—their first child, Gabriel, had been stillborn. Jenna had been terrified to try again, so they hadn’t planned on it. They were looking into adoption.

Then Tricia came along. They monitored her health like hawks, refusing to take chances. Patricia was born healthy and screaming, kicking for life. Tom remembered crying in relief when they put Trish in his arms.

And she’d grown like a weed ever since.

Jenna looked tired when she came to pick up Tricia. She mustered a smile for Trish, and did her best to look Tom in the eye. “Are you free, Friday?” she asked. “I was wondering if you’d look after Trish.”

“I’ve got a date.”

“Oh.” She was surprised for different reasons. “Alright then… I’ll hire a sitter.”

She’d a date too, that’s why she’d asked. Married for ten years and both of them were already trying to move on. A good thing, in some ways, he supposed.

“You’re doing alright then.”

“I’m doing fine.” Which was to say, none of your business. She’d closed the door to her life when she walked out of the flat. If she wanted to tell him something, she would. Otherwise. Tom’s significance to her life had shrunk dramatically. She would only deal with him at all because of Trish.

He was a little sad about that. You’re married to someone for ten years you’ve been living with them for twelve and have known each other for fifteen… he’d think he’d deserve a little more than I’m doing fine. But it wasn’t about what he deserved, he knew that. He bent, giving Trish a kiss on the forehead goodbye and patting her hair. “Be good, alright?”

“Yes, Daddy.” She hugged him.

“Have a nice night,” Jenna said. Tom couldn’t tell if it was genuine or a subtle fuck off.With Jenna, it could be either. Growing up with an extended family she loathed had shaped her into the queen of subtle fuck yous. He’d thought it entertaining when they first met, and she managed to humiliate a professor they both loathed without the professor realizing it.

She could have been anything she wanted, Jenna… why she’d chosen to write for a magazine of all things was beyond Tom. She had to have at least three novels sitting in a box under her desk. Three. She’d never even tried to have them published. She hadn’t even let Tom look at them.

He watched them go down the hall, leaning on his doorframe. It was always too quiet in the flat when Trish left. He wasn’t used to being alone anymore.

“You alright, dear?” It was his neighbor, an elderly woman who lived across the hall with her granddaughter.

“Just fine, Mrs. Porter,” he lied. “Just fine.”

“You know, my granddaughter—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Porter, but no.” He smiled a little. Mrs. Porter’s granddaughter was in her late twenties, and completely embarrassed by her grandmother’s constant attempts to set her up with an older gentleman. “Goodnight, Mrs. Porter.”

“Oh, well, goodnight, Tom.” She shut the door, and Anderson sighed and looked heavenward. What the hell was going on with his life?

More importantly, what was he going to say the next time he saw Molly Hooper?


End file.
